


Alms for Oblivion

by OldShrewsburyian



Category: Inspector George Gently
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Aftermath of a Case, Comfort/Angst, Dialogue Heavy, Episode Related, Friendship, Gen, Hospitals, Male-Female Friendship, POV Female Character, References to Shakespeare, Tag to 5x04 and 6x01, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, why is there not a tag for under-appreciated middle-aged women?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-17
Updated: 2017-11-17
Packaged: 2019-02-03 11:32:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12747456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OldShrewsburyian/pseuds/OldShrewsburyian
Summary: Gently's "In the unlikely event that I am still alive and not incarcerated, would you consider having dinner with me next week?" has to be one of the great pick-up lines, and I'm still upset that the exceedingly fabulous Gitta Bronson (Miss) didn't become a recurring character. So, set between series 5 and 6, this imagines the aftermath to "Gently in the Cathedral" with her included.





	Alms for Oblivion

“And what relation are you to Mr. Gently?” 

Gitta’s chief thought was that the girl on the ward desk seemed terribly young, as well as disconcertingly cheerful. The latter attribute, at least, was likely to be useful to her in her chosen line of work.

“I’m his solicitor,” she said at last. She was acutely conscious of the bunch of daisies in her hand. “And his friend.”

“Oh, right. So I suppose you’ll need to see him? As his solicitor? Only you can’t stay long.”

“Understood.” And so, with no further ado, she was signed in.

She nearly walked past his room. She glanced surreptitiously into each one as she passed; the man in 223 looked too small and too pale, too ill and too old. She allowed herself one deep breath in the hallway before going in.

He was asleep — or seemed to be — which gave her time to put the daises in a vase, and to think of how everything she had planned to say seemed wrong. She was good at using words: at turning them into weapons or promises, fairy tales or irresistible truths. Suddenly, they were unwieldy: the wrong shape, the wrong weight.

“Nurse?” He spoke hoarsely; fear settled itself more deeply within her, cold and heavy.

“No,” she said — evenly, smoothly, in her best courtroom voice — “it’s Gitta, Gitta Bronson.” She leant over the bed, to make sure he could see her without straining. “Hullo, George.” 

He put out his hand and she took it, if not as unhesitatingly as when he had come to her doorstep at dawn.

“Gitta.” She had time to sit down before he spoke again. “It’s… good of you to come.” His words came slowly, weighted with weariness.

“I told the girl on the desk I was your solicitor — which is, after all, true — and she let me through. I’m not to stay long.” Another heavy silence. “I can go any time you like. If you’d rather rest, just say the word.”

“No.” There was that old forcefulness. “No, I…” The thought drifted into silence; her hand was faintly pressed. “Am I going to need a solicitor?”

“Not one of my caliber.” Trying not to see his pallor, his fallen-in flesh, she found her eyes drawn by the saline and morphine drips — worse. “No; but since I’m already retained… I’m going to explain to the jury that they’ve no business being left unsupervised if they can’t see that you shot in self-defense, and that no criminal charges should be brought, either for unlawful killing or for destruction of property. Indeed, acquittal is the very least that you are owed; compensation itself is little, in view of the service you have rendered, etc. I plan to be scathing. I might work in a _Hamlet_ quotation, depending on who’s presiding; Overton always likes a good Shakespeare reference.”

“Bless you, Gitta.” Another silence, and then: “I never even thanked you properly.”

“Oh, George.” _But I never cry,_ Gitta told herself firmly; _I never cry._

“Can’t even… take dinner without getting a man killed.”

“Tim’s death was not your fault, George.” Surely they had both stopped believing such facile reassurances decades ago. 

“Did he have family?” _Oh, this man. This stubborn, self-punishing man._

“A sister,” said Gitta, knowing it would be worse than useless to lie to him. “They weren’t close.”

“Ah.”

“By the time of the funeral, I think she was already starting to feel relieved. That’s a terrible thing to say, I know.”

“If it’s the truth…” 

After a moment, he added: “I got blood on the seat of your car.”

“Blimey O’Reilly, George.” She tilted her head back, seeking distraction in things as small as the blemishes in the paintwork. “Do you know, I wouldn’t have known if you hadn’t told me.” She smiled at him. “I told you Thomas was discreet.”

“Very.” There was no mirth in his face.

“I’d do it again,” said Gitta, fighting the silence, fighting unspoken truths and unanswerable questions. There were so many things she could not ask him: did he know how his sergeant was? Did he have anyone to look after him, when he got out? Did he need anything? Was he all right? was he all right? was he all right?

“They won’t tell me how John is,” said Gently, and she started.

“I’ll ask.”

He turned his head to look at her directly. “Would you, Gitta?”

“Of course.”

Even his smile was wan. She tightened her free hand in her lap.

“It was a lot to ask.” His speech was beginning to slur. “Shared cases, shared drinks, shared friendship… Still. You saved my life.”

She squared her shoulders. “You knew I would.”

“Yes.”

“Because of who you are. Because of who I know you to be.” In the silence, she began to wonder if he was drifting again towards sleep.

“I invited you to dinner,” he said at last.

“You did. Or very nearly.”

“Well. I hope that you might still… consider it. I’m afraid I’ll have to postpone the engagement. Although I am alive and not incarcerated.” 

She bit her lip, unsure whether she was trying to hold back laughter or tears. “Men. Shockingly unreliable.”

Seeing him laugh was like seeing color come into his face, or youth. “Thank you for coming, Gitta.”

“Of course.” She rose, forced herself not to stiffen or draw back as she leant over the bed, brushed her lips against his cheek. “It’s good to see you, George.”

“Gitta…” He was frowning slightly, as if in concentration or in pain. “Gitta…” He seemed not to know what he wanted; he struggled to form no other words. Only the shape of her name rested on his lips.

“Shh,” said Gitta. “Don’t worry, George, please. Please, George. I’ll come again. I promise.”

“You don’t have to…”

“Oh, I know that, George.” She smiled down at him, suddenly overwhelmed with affection. “But I will anyway.”


End file.
